Some Kind Of Redemption
by Inkcharm
Summary: Fury Road AU, eventual Fenhawke: They are not Things. They are not Dolls. They will not be used anymore. Fenris and the other slaves want out. Fenris' sister drives the war rig. A human called Hawke reluctantly helps. Maybe, just maybe, they will all find some sort of redemption, or die in their furious pursuit of freedom.
1. Prologue

**Title:** Some Kind Of Redemption  
 **Author:** Inkcharm  
 **Summary:** They are not Things. They are not Dolls. They will not be used anymore. Fenris and the other slaves want out. Fenris' sister drives the war rig. A human called Hawke reluctantly helps. Maybe, just maybe, they will all find some sort of redemption, or die in their furious pursuit of freedom.  
 **Warnings:** Fury Road AU, Angst, Violence, Slavery, Sexual Slavery, Mentions and Depictions of Slave, Mentions of Minor Character Death, Mentions of Underage Sex, Mentions of Underage Rape  
 **Disclaimer:** The video games of the "Dragon Age" series does not belong to me, nor do its characters or anything related to the franchise. The world of the "Mad Max" franchise does not belong to me, nor do its characters or anything related to the franchise. I make no profit out of this story, it is written merely for fun and entertainment of other fans.  
 **Part:** 1/?

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

Fic will mostly be written from Fenris' POV, but the prologue is Varania's POV to offer exposition and flesh out surrounding circumstances for those two in particular.

Character chart regarding the Mad Max verse:  
Wives = Dolls (not all female, but all elven) = Fenris, Merrill, Velanna, Zevran  
Furiosa = Varania  
Max = Hawke  
Immortan Joe = Danarius (and literally no one was surprised)

* * *

 **Some Kind Of Redemption  
** _Prologue_

Varania gains her freedom not because she's grown too old or lost her appeal in a different way, the way these things usually go. No, she's still young enough and beautiful enough with her rather fair skin and bright red hair. Not a strand of grey, not a line on her face, that would warrant turning her out into the wasteland, no longer fit to wear the flimsy white of Danarius' Dolls and serve in his private quarter. No disfigurations either. Like all Dolls she's well protected, far removed from any harm. Her looks have not become obsolote, as Shianni's did the day Varania arrived and Danarius believed one redhead was quite enough. He appreciates variety. She also hasn't displeased him.

No.

No, the day Varania is released from her existence as a slave, an object, a Doll, is the day her little brother grows old enough to appeal to Danarius. And so he is collared, and takes her place.

They only see one another once in passing when it happens. He's 15, all long legs and wide eyes, much darker in skin than she is, with a mop of black hair. She'd told him to stay out of sight five years ago, when her own developing body had caught attentions. Had told him to make himself unappealing. Born an elf, he could never be a War Boy, broken in different ways, but perhaps he would be lucky – remain invisible, poor, and die unnoticed and young. No such luck.

Now he will get a name. Will be branded on his face, the back of his neck, between his thighs, clad in almost see-through white and allowed to live in the lap of luxury.

The price is insignificant – merely his existence.

Varania holds his gaze, and chokes back words. Wants to trade places with him again immediately, because being nothing has to be worse than not knowing how to be something, doesn't it? How dare he grow up handsome despite her warnings? How dare he draw Danarius' eye, casting her out of easy misery into difficult freedom? It's not his fault, and yet Varania has to blame him a little, because the alternative is to break apart knowing exactly what he will suffer through.

That night she finds no sleep on the cot she's been assigned, paralyzed by fear of what freedom entails. It's a dark weight pressing down on her, squeezing the air out of her lungs. There are no other elves curled up around her on a massive, soft bed. The air is filthy. She has a future, and that's the most terrifying thing she could have ever imagined. She twists onto her side, trying to find some peace of mind. But how could she, when she has not seen her brother in five years, and will likely not see him until he's tossed out of Danarius' service years from now, if she even survives that long. Varania doesn't even know what his voice sounds like now. And yet she knows exactly what his screams would sound like tonight.

It's three years later that Varania catches a glimpse.

Her own red hair is shorn short. A prosthetic has replaced her left arm. Freedom is still agony, and the way she longs for the simply days of being a Doll disgust her. She's working as a mechanic now, and occasionally makes deliveries. She delivers a new Doll today, a thin girl with skin as white as milk, and hair as black as tar. Elven, because what else would she be. Someone has to replace Seranni, who died in child birth and took the babe with her. Varania didn't know her long enough before being released to mourn her now, and yet she feels a strange pang of regret. Over her death, or over the kind of work Varania's doing these days, she's not sure.

The air is different up here, and it seems to delight the little bird of a woman at Varania's side. Poor thing has no idea what life holds in store for her. The Dolls are lingering around in silence, more naked than dressed in white, revealing cloth.

It takes her a long time to recognize her brother.

Except there's almost nothing left that looks like the darling boy she yelled at never to draw a human's eye when they dragged her out of the hovel in which their mother had died.

Danarius likes to improve his Dolls, and tattoos are an easy way to achieve this. Varania is one of the few whose face remained bare, although she bears his designs elsewhere, and will never be able to remove him from her skin. Most of them are branded in easily visible places. The face, bare arms, ankles. The white lines curling around her brother's dark skin are a shock, winding over his arms, around his calves, where the skin is still reddened. His markings are an ongoing process, then, which is unusual in itself. And his hair... He's grown it out, but there's already plenty of white mixed in with soot black.

He's not going to last. Danarius won't care that he's only 18 when his hair is already turning white. He'll be discarded. She'll deliver his replacement up here, because that's what she does now, apparently.

Danarius should have kept her. Her little brother, the way she remembers him, is strong beyond his age, but it's glaringly obvious in the scowling line between his brows that he's not made to last. And yet he has the audacity to look at her with thinly veiled disgust. Varania meets the stare, wonders if he even recognizes her. Dares him, silently, to accept responsibility for her fate, the freedom he forced upon her. The luxury he grabbed for himself.

And yet as the elven woman is taken from Varania's grip, she knows deep down inside that the only true luxury she had up here was the knowledge that her little brother was nameless and safe and far away from Danarius. And because she's free to go, she looks away from him and leaves this place.

That's not her brother up there. It's just a Doll.

Just what she used to be.

* * *

Thank you for reading! Please leave a review if you enjoyed.

New chapters will be posted regularly.


	2. Chapter 1: What Is And Should Not Be

**Title:** Some Kind Of Redemption  
 **Author:** Inkcharm  
 **Summary:** They are not Things. They are not Dolls. They will not be used anymore. Fenris and the other slaves want out. Fenris' sister drives the war rig. A human called Hawke reluctantly helps. Maybe, just maybe, they will all find some sort of redemption, or die in their furious pursuit of freedom.  
 **Warnings:** Fury Road AU, Angst, Violence, Slavery, Sexual Slavery, Mentions and Depictions of Slave, Mentions of Minor Character Death, Mentions of Underage Sex, Mentions of Underage Rape  
 **Disclaimer:** The video games of the "Dragon Age" series does not belong to me, nor do its characters or anything related to the franchise. The world of the "Mad Max" franchise does not belong to me, nor do its characters or anything related to the franchise. I make no profit out of this story, it is written merely for fun and entertainment of other fans.  
 **Part:** 1/?

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

Fic will mostly be written from Fenris' POV.

Character chart regarding the Mad Max verse:  
Wives = Dolls (not all female, but all elven) = Fenris, Merrill, Velanna, Zevran  
Furiosa = Varania  
Max = Hawke  
Immortan Joe = Danarius (and literally no one was surprised)

* * *

 **Some Kind Of Redemption**  
 _Chapter 1: What Is And Should Not Be_

His right hand this time. The needle dances across his skin mercilessly, over his wrist, palm, and up the length of his index finger in a steady line, just much too slowly for comfort. Merrill slips the cloth of her belt between his lips so he doesn't bite his tongue, and pulls his head into her lap. Her face is still red and puffy, the markings on her own pale skin fresh and tender. They highlight her wide eyes.

Fenris thinks she's older than him, but also that she feels younger. It matters very little in this place. What matters right now is his punishment. He's earned it, and he's going to own it. He'll take the pain and let it seep through his skin to fester in his guts and let him rot, turn him ugly from the inside out until Danarius finds nothing about him pleasing anymore, not even the elaborate decorations he has the Bringer of Pain so painfully etch into Fenris' skin.

Their rebellions come in many different shapes and forms. Merrill gets her hands dirty in the soil to feel where those rare splashes of green hail from, and _cares_ about the rest of them. Zevran flirts with his fellow Dolls, and makes shivs out of scraps. Velanna snarls and spits and screams, and tells soft stories of her sister when she doesn't. Fenris vies for punishments, takes the pain and lets it fester into anger. They all serve, because stuck at the very top of Danarius' fortress and surrounded by guards, there's little choice and a distinct lack of alternatives that involve survival.

His index finger throbs. Fenris grunts through the belt as the needle scratches over his inner wrist, connects the new line to the pattern already snaking around his arm. Merrill cards her fingers through his hair, and Zevran's fingers dig into his calf. The tattoos there are still tender, too, not quite healed off yet. Zevran knows this. He's tossing Fenris a smirk and digs in a little further. The younger elf is grateful, even if he scowls. Zevran sometimes tells him to stop doing that, words lilting in a sing song around his accent. After all, scowls will just lead to wrinkles. Fenris can't wait. He wants to look rough, not pretty. He wants to make others flinch, not leer.

The redhead hasn't flinched, yesterday. When she brought them Merrill, whose silent tears after her initiation have been as difficult for Zevran and Velanna to swallow as Fenris' screams three years ago.

Velanna paces just outside of Fenris' currently limited field of vision. He can hear her bare feet on the stone, though. Marethari will scold her for pacing, old and impossibly still alive, and harsh in order to stay that way yet. Always dictating how proper Dolls should behave. She doesn't see them as people either, just as pets not yet house trained.

The needle stings into the soft flesh in the middle of Fenris' palm again. Merrill breathes a soft 'oh' when she notices a clump of black hair coming out of his scalp with her motion. Zevran maintains fingernails that are just a little too long to be practical, and digs them right into a swirl on the inside of Fenris' right knee.

It's good.

It's all good.

He doesn't know the name she's been given, that woman who used to be his sister and then became a Doll, and now is... something else. Free because Fenris wears her collar. Literally. It has letters engraved on the inside, and sometimes he hooks his fingers in between the metal and his skin, runs the tip along those letters as if they'd mean anything to him, as if he could decipher them. Danarius wants his Dolls entertaining, not educated. Not like that. He learned four languages these past three years, yet could not read a single word of either one. So Fenris doesn't know what the letters on the inside of his collar say, what name they'd read. What name she's been given and likely still wears, because what else are you going to do with a name once it's been beating into your bent back? Sister is not a proper name. And neither is Brother. They're just what you call someone you wouldn't dare give a name to, because what use is there when they die off much too quickly anyway.

You don't get attached, you don't get that luxury. Except there's nothing but a strange form of attachment up here, and Fenris' world is still lilting on the wrong axis, out of balance. He's a Doll, a thing to be used, and yet he's gained so much here. A name. Pain, his own pain. A people, made up of the four of them.

His middle finger is done, and the needle leaves. Ink has to be refilled. When the Bringer of Pain turns away, Velanna darts forwards, slips her hand into his right one and squeezes with hard eyes. Fenris squeezes back so tightly he nearly passes out from the burn. Zevran distracts him by running his fingers along that tender calf, and Merrill places a cool hand on his forehead instead of risking more of the black strands coming out.

Marethari coldly called it a condition back when Danarius demanded an explanation. Stress or depression or anxiety or malnourishment slowly but surely making his hair fall out, and grow back white because his body is all kinds of out of balance. Fenris would call it a victory. Marethari tried to convince Danarius to get rid of him because he won't last, but their master only laughed at that. Fenris thinks Marethari is old and bitter and doesn't particularly care for anything beyond her own rules. Perhaps she feels as though she has a semblance of power.

The redhead hasn't recognized him at first. He's not sure how he feels about that. She's not a Doll anymore, but she used to be. Now she brings Dolls. She has fewer limbs than he thinks there should have been, can't picture Danarius wanting a Doll missing something other than their will, which he likes to erode in some, but break in others.

Fenris barely remembers the half-starved, slow stumble towards death that was his existence before coming here, constantly dehydrated, filthy and battling sickness. He's still thin, they all are, even for elves, but he's not dying anymore. At least not quite so immediately. Still, even through that haze he thinks he remembers her – his sister – with a full set of limbs.

Velanna darts away when the Bringer of Pain returns, and Fenris closes his eyes as the needle descends once more with its white ink. Two fingers done. Touching anything, anyone, in the near future with that hand will be utter agony, and that shouldn't please Fenris as much as it does.

This is his, his, his alone. Danarius has these marks put on him to spread his ownership, make sure his pet understands that he's being claimed inch by inch until nothing of himself remains, but Fenris wants them, fights for them the only way he knows how to, and uses them the only way he can. They're not a reminder not to bite the hand that feeds, but a reminder that he's not painted wood with strings attached.

 _Alive._

Just so.

* * *

He grips the headboard tightly with his right hand when he serves that night.

Velanna is the one who washes him after, because Merrill is yet too sweet, and Zevran's bravado doesn't always hold up. This way Fenris knows the hands sifting dead, black strands out of his hair won't tremble.

He's transferred his grip from the headboard to the rim of the tub, white-knuckles it and thinks the water he's sitting in would keep a dozen 15 year old versions of himself alive for a year.

Velanna grips his chin, not quite hard enough to bruise but almost, and holds his gaze. Lets him go only when she's certain there's still someone in there behind green eyes, that she's not wasting her energy cleaning someone who died inside.

Fenris doesn't want to die. He just _wants_.

* * *

The redhead is his sister, but what does that even mean?

There's something ugly and dark in Velanna when she talks about Seranni, and that ugliness, that darkness, it pleases Fenris a great deal. It's similar to the rot in his own gut. He can't be sweet and caring like Merrill, or flippant and crude like Zevran. It's quite alright. Velanna and him can probably be angry and bitter enough for all of them and then some, though she's definitely louder about it than he is usually. Ranting, getting up close and into everyone's face, berating them, trying to get something out of them. It's good. It keeps Fenris uneasy and on edge. Danarius is pleased that Fenris moves on the balls of his feet like a dancer, when in truth the elf just wants to be ready to lunge.

Neither Zevran nor Merrill have siblings that they remember. Fenris isn't sure his sister counts, because he barely recalls her. Ten when she was taken up, when he thought she was worth saving and failed to scar his face for his own protection.

Now he's here, and she's free to roam the spaces beneath. He considers that a gift. Freedom to die in the dirt is still freedom. A luxury he won't be able to reclaim until Danarius tires of him, which despite Fenris' best efforts to balance rebellion and survival seems not to be in the cards for him anytime soon. He's the favorite, and were he just a little more self-reflective, he'd realize that he made himself an entertaining challenge. Danarius is endlessly amused at a Doll refusing to be bent into proper shape.

The sad thing, the thing that provokes pity and sympathy and even a sick sense of loyalty in some Dolls is that their master genuinely cares for them in his own twisted way. Danarius has no intention of damaging his property, although his definition of the term damage could stand to be adjusted. Fenris is well aware of the danger the man poses as their master. It would be oh so very easy to give in to his praise and rewards. To be a good, pliant Doll, a perfectly obedient slave, to just hold still and give in to the illusion of being loved and cared for.

Fenris did that, once. At first. Thinking Seranni had the right of it, except by now he knows she was misguided. It's a nice thought to give up resistance and feel no pain anymore, except that's a different kind of suicide, and Fenris comes from the dirt, where survival is all he got to learn about. He's learned about himself that he hates standing still, needs to move to remember he's alive.

Zevran massages his recently tattooed hand until Fenris hisses. Then he just holds it for a while. Marethari drones on about table manners. There are standards Danarius expects his Dolls to conform to.

Merrill. Brought in here by the redhead, who is his sister, whose collar sits around his throat with a name he can't decipher. There's something skittering across the very outskirts of Fenris' mind, so he pushes it aside and instead focuses on lightly scratching his fingers down the back of Merrill's neck. An idea that can't quite take root yet, because like the wasteland outside, Fenris' mind is deadly, but nearly barren. As the wind shifts the sand, his mind is constantly shifting his thoughts, wiping away anything that doesn't seem useful or important immediately. It gets buried. Might resurface later. Might lay forgotten.

Ideas are dangerous – to give in to Danarius is an idea, after all. A still mind is as dead as a still body, so Fenris tries not to dwell too much. Doesn't stay on the redhead, but allows her to drift through his thoughts occasionally.

Zevran nudges him and picks up the massage once more, just so he can get to see Fenris bare his teeth. He's not disappointed. Velanna roll her eyes so hard they're all surprised they swivel back at all. Merrill leans against her and murmurs her concern about that, which lightens the mood a little. Marethari demands silence.

Fenris knows the old woman's life would be easier if the Dolls were better behaved. She gets whipped for their slip ups and imperfections. He doesn't care. Compassion is dangerous, will break Merrill before Danarius does, kill Marethari if she ever gives in to it, and Fenris is glad he himself appears to simply lack the trait.

He didn't his sister for five years. Then briefly glimpsed her as he was being collared. Nothing more for the following three years again, hoping against hope she'd have done herself a favor and made something of her freedom. Instead he finds her doing... this. One of Danarius' creatures by her own choice instead of her former master's. Then again, his cynicism is as foolish as his hopes. What else is there to do after all, if one rules death out as a viable option? Without access to wheels, there is nothing but Danarius for insurmountable miles upon miles.

Fenris pulls his hand from Zevran's loose grasp, glowers at the white lines decorating his palm. Curls his fingers to test the pain, a constant ache somewhere on his skin, as new additions are made regularly before the old ones have stopped being tender. It helps him cling to that feeble shred of self that he has. With the additions having been made to his hand, touching anything is currently more than just uncomfortable. So Fenris waits for Zevran to pull a knee up to his chest, then curls his hand around it.

* * *

There are bruises forming on her hips, and Fenris almost wishes to trade places with Velanna or Zevran. But that's not how this works. They're all they have here, because to be a Doll is to be lonely. They all have to be there for one another. He can't exclude himself from that just because he's not sure how to handle Merrill's bruises or her silent tears. During the day she babbles, which grates on his nerves, but because of that her silences are so much harder to take.

It's easier with the others. Mostly because they've been here longer than he has, while Merrill is still new, tender, and sweet in ways they aren't anymore. Were it Zevran, Fenris could do his task in silence and trust the other elf to make the quips he needs to stay standing upright. And with Velanna, he can add his bitterness to her vicious outbursts of righteous anger. When it's him, they know to touch him as much as necessary and as little as possible, because he keeps things on the inside in different ways than Zevran. Not tucked beneath endless layers of glib humor and friendly flirtation, but sharpened into hatred. Merrill, it seems, needs to let things out instead of swallowing them down like shards of metal with ragged edges, only there's no anger with her. Just those silent tears and empty eyes.

Fenris won't let her slip away, though. They are Danarius' Dolls, but that doesn't mean he'll let her become a doll, no matter how much she unnerves him. No longer able to witness her tears, Fenris kneels in front of her instead, one hand on her thigh to keep her steady – carefully placed beneath the hand shaped bruise, of course. He has sense enough for that, at least. He's slower and more careful than he'd be with Zevran or Velanna when he wets the cloth, squeezes out excess water and then reaches between her legs to clean her. She'll get a bath after.

There's little they can do to avoid pregnancy, but they like to think that this might help at least a little. Helps with feeling a little more clean at any rate. To Merrill's credit, she doesn't flinch from his touch or the cool cloth. And whatever hang-ups he has with her naivety and babbling, he treats her as kindly as he can in this.

* * *

Merrill likes to braid his hair. On good days, he lets her. On bad days he snarls at her. Fenris doesn't feel sorry for it, and Merrill in turn doesn't feel wounded by his more vicious moods. She knows that when he snarls, he's feeling wounded himself. His honest cruelties are delivered with deadly calm. Those he tries to regret, because those cut his companions. He's not always successful in feeling for them, not when there is so much to feel for himself. Perhaps that makes him a bad person. They don't seem to think so, but Fenris isn't sure if a group as damaged as theirs can make accurate assessments in that regard.

Today is not a good day. There will be no braid thumping against his back with every step like a second heartbeat, like a living thing. Today Fenris' command is to simply hold still.

He's on all fours in front of Danarius' chair, his master's feet propped on back.

Today he's not an elf, not a person, just a foot rest.

Merrill is dancing to the tune of Velanna's mechanical flute and Zevran's guitar. The atmosphere is of grim determination. Not that Danarius is aware – he's enjoying himself thoroughly. But all it'd take for that to crumble would be one misstep, one wrong breath affecting the tune, one finger slipping, one arm trembling.

A drop of sweat trickles down the length of Fenris' nose, clings to the tip for a moment and then falls. He's been looking at the same part of the stone floor for three hours now, can't even hear the music over the way his muscles are screaming. He can't move, can hardly breathe because he's still, stopped, bent and bowed. Perhaps he's already snapped in half and just failed to notice. He couldn't flex his fingers or curl his toes if he tried. They've long gone numb.

Danarius does this sometimes, uses them as other objects than toys for his physical pleasure. A plate to eat off of, a chair, a foot rest, a tray,

Water splatters down onto the stones not far from Fenris' fingertips. It's grown too warm to appeal to Danarius taste buds. He sends Hadriana to fetch more. The wretched creature used to be a breeder. How many War Boys she spat out, no one knows, but the number has to be significant for her to still be alive instead of dying the only death elves and female humans are granted – a lonely, miserable one, without the supposed glory of Valhalla the War Boys scream so furiously about. Instead, her sickly body is being held together by tape and staple. To keep her around provides amusement for Danarius, especially as she believes herself to be chosen. As if birthing sickly girls to be killed or raised into brood mothers, and sickly boys to be tortured and broken and sent to death warrants any sort of glory. Still she delights in the waste of water, delights in knowing that Fenris' throat tightens.

She can't have them, the chastity devices keeping her from male or female genitalia to play with. It doesn't mean she can't have her own kind of cruel fun with them now that she's finally gained access to creatures that are less. Unable to hurt them in any significant way lest she leave marks, she instead hounds their sleep, mocks them, taints their meals.

And Fenris can't do anything but hold still when Hadriana makes sure some more water spatters down just close enough for him to see, but too far away to cool the ache that was once a body, and is now a commodity.

* * *

Fenris sees the redhead again months later when she's made Imperator. She's summoned up into the cage Danarius calls his quarters, where he keeps something green and cups of stained blue glass to fill with water, and dolls wrapped in white cloth.

She doesn't even look like him. Fenris thinks his skin has always been this dark, though it used to be a bit darker because of the dirt. Hers is pale. The stubble of hair still visible on her scalp is red, not black or white. Still. Fenris first looked into a mirror when he was 15 and presented to Danarius. The same shock of recognition and wonder makes his chest feel tight when he looks at her now. They're differently colored, but their eyes are the same, their faces not identical but similar. It's there. He can see it.

Danarius sees it, too. Perhaps for the first time – according to his own praise, the moment he saw Fenris, he had to have him, and got rid of the elf with the unhappiest features. Fenris can see that, too. His sister has a softer face than him or even Velanna, but there's something in the firm set of her mouth and the determined slant of her eyes that makes her look harder than them. At any rate, this seems to be the first time Danarius notices he gave her collar to her little brother. He laughs, hooks his fingers beneath the metal and pulls Fenris forwards like an object to be shown off, until the siblings stand almost nose to nose.

She smells like sweat and dirt and grease. He smells like his master. Both are jealous of one another.

Had she kept her looks, she might have been collared again, just for the novelty. There's a reason Seranni and Velanna were of interest to Danarius despite their individually plain looks compared to his usual preferences. But Seranni is dead, and now his sister looks like a warrior, not a Doll, and Danarius doesn't desire that. Not the way he desires his little wolf with its black fur by now generously streaked with white.

She's a warrior. She's an Imperator.

Perhaps he saved her after all.

* * *

Velanna curses him viciously. Fenris is barely aware. Doesn't hear Zevran's frantic babbling either. Antivan, not Common. Merrill pleads with the other female to go easy on him, but they all know she can't afford to do that. There's little time, and Fenris can't be seen like this.

So Velanna snarls at him and pushes his head under once more. Fenris is kneeling on the floor in front of the tub. Still for once not because of his orders, but because he forgot how to keep in motion. She's gone now, the redhead whose name he doesn't know. The newly appointed Imperator. Risen in rank so fast while all he's done is move in circles on the balls of his feet. Where has that gotten him? Has he been standing still all this time without knowing it? He's a fool to have thought his little rebellions to have any sort of impact at all. As long as he's here, he doesn't matter.

Zevran pulls on his shoulders, gets him up because Fenris isn't struggling against Velanna's grip the way he should. And for the time being, Merrill gets the other woman to pause, then grasps Fenris' face with gentle hands. There's pity in her eyes, and he doesn't need that. He needs to know the redhead's name so he can say it out loud. To her face. In person. So he can lunge at what's skittering across his mind, not to hold it down, but to cling to it and ride it out. Cling to it. Cling to her. Did he do that before she was taken? He can't quite recall. She might, she was older then. Is still older now. What that means he doesn't know.

She won't die. She's alive and a warrior and an Imperator. That means power. That means she has a chance not to die. That _means..._ something.

Fenris looks less and less like his sibling with every passing day, with every white swirl and line and dot added to his darker skin. This attempt to bridge the chasm between them was poorly thought out, but something took hold of his hands. So when the others slept he snuck into the bathing chambers, grabbed at black strands, fewer every day, and pulled, pulled, pulled. Black and white are now lying in curls around his knees, and the water is stained red.

It doesn't stay in his hair.

Velanna scrubs away every fresh trickle until it stops.

They use one of Zevran's makeshift blades to chop off the ruins of his hair. It can be explained. Danarius is aware of the black hair falling out, and delights in the white that grows in instead. He believes Fenris' body is marking itself the way Danarius is having Fenris marked with white ink. He might still be angry of course, since he likes to have more to grab onto than Fenris is left with.

He'll take the punishment. He'll take it all, and make it his, because he bleeds as red as his sister's hair.

* * *

Zevran holds back Velanna's hair as she empties her stomach yet again. Despite the arid heat, Fenris feels cold. He averts his eyes, crosses his arms. It doesn't help. Dread is seeping into his bones like a disease, and shifting from one foot to the other doesn't help. Merrill has tears in her eyes, and only the thing they've just learned is keeping Fenris from snapping at her to pull herself together.

He wants to say this isn't her burden, but that's not true. This is their burden.

They will all carry that child growing in Velanna, and they will all lose it to Danarius if it's male and healthy, or to death if it's female or not healthy or stillborn or shows too many signs of its elf blood. They will all suffer in the coming months, because this might as well have been a death sentence for Velanna. Chances are she won't survive the birth. And if she does, chances are the birth won't please Danarius.

Their master likes to pretend he cares for his Dolls as he does for all his prized possessions. But he cares more about himself, and anything growing in a female Doll is his by extension. So should Velanna taint the child, should she not birth a healthy male heir for Danarius, she will suffer for it.

Velanna is what he lost when his big sister was taken.

He's not a child anymore now. His only way to save the redhead had been to fail to cut his face and hope he'd grow up pretty enough to follow her. But now... now he doesn't have to fight for survival. Now he can swallow and feel the pain of lines wandering up his neck. Now he has time to _think_.

Moving has never been this easy, and there is a lot of ground to cover

* * *

They are Dolls. They are things. They are objects to be used. They are kept, decorated, used, abused, hurt, handled, displayed.

They should not be.

* * *

Fenris doesn't tell them, not yet. Perhaps there is compassion in him, perhaps he cannot bear to raise hopes and crush them. He helps Velanna hide her pregnancy for now, because they all know she might still lose the child. He does not rebel against Danarius, lets their master think this Doll broke beautifully. Fenris degrades himself to gain a single boon, and asks to be alone with the Imperator. Danarius pulls on Fenris' short white hair with one hand, and rubs the thumb of the other up and down the elf's throat until his pretty big eyes are shiny and wet. Fenris lets it happen, doesn't hold them back. He doesn't need more markings right now. After, certainly. But now he just needs Danarius to indulge him.

He should not be a doll, a thing, an object, but for now he is. For Velanna. For the redhead. For Merrill and Zevran. For himself.

Danarius likes to hear himself talk. He gloats over his pretty little wolf, his perfect, favorite slave. He is a kind master, he says, so he'll let Fenris meet the Imperator. He calls her by the name he gave her.

The tear slipping down Fenris' cheek is not one of pain.

* * *

The door clicks shut behind them, and for a moment, Fenris can't move.

It can all still crumble in his hands, so he keeps his face carefully neutral. This time he won't save her, but propose ruining the life she's built for herself. She has power now. She drives the war rig. She is alive. She can ruin him.

Her eyes slide to his throat, to the fresh white markings beneath her collar, to the very faint purple bruises that show her what he is and what he does.

There's judgment in her eyes, or perhaps jealousy, or maybe even pity, but Fenris raises his chin. Lets her look. He has no shame, discarded that more than five years ago when he was taken. Perhaps he never learned to have it, being nothing more than an elf underneath the magister's boot.

He plans to speak calmly, tell her of the situation, propose his plan. Put his existence in her hands, because to even think it is treason. But she's the only link he has, the only chance, and it has to mean something that her last words to him were to cut his darling face so no one would ever touch him. It has to mean something that she once called him Brother and he once called her Sister, and now they're strangers with similar features who both tried to save the other years ago.

But then she scoffs. "What do you want, Doll?" Her voice trembles, she's trying to build a wall he can't climb, so he does what he prepared for all these years, and lunges. Grasps her shoulders and shoves her against the wall, lets her try to punch him – good, good, she's not worried about preserving him, about keeping him pretty for someone else's pleasure, and then they're nose to nose.

Fenris bites his words at her, the snarl of an entire wolf pack at his throat, the ones who came before him, the ones who will come after him, the ones who are here with him, and she stills, because it's her own voice speaking back to her, layered underneath his dark and rough one:

"We are not _things_ , Varania."

* * *

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